


A Call to Motion

by vesuviannights



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 05:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20148235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesuviannights/pseuds/vesuviannights
Summary: Muriel teases you with the softest of kisses over every freckle, mark and hair on your body. You - impatient, demanding, sinking into him - want to show him exactly what he does to you in return.





	A Call to Motion

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the smutty drabble game on my Tumblr (@vesuviannights). The prompts were "Stop teasing, I can't take it anymore" and "I want you to come all over me, make me your dirty little whore" for Muriel and a female reader.

Wide, calloused hands explore the planes of your body, the little ridges of their scars scraping oh-so-gently over the curves of your breasts, down your trembling stomach. Their owner leaves soft kisses wherever they follow, as though worried that a touch each scar from his life of suffering might somehow turn that suffering onto you. 

At first, it is wonderful, tender. His lips linger, slightly chapped from the winter winds, over every square inch of you as though no piece were an more or less important than the rest. It makes your heart ache to kiss him in return and spill all your feelings to him for the thousandth time, even though he still blushes a little when he hears you say them.

Now, though…now it is torture, in its rawest and most treacherous form. Having his lips on every inch of your skin, watching and feeling them curve as you sigh or shift impatiently, having him hold you so softly between the vast expanse of each hand, shadowing you with his body as he moves over it…absolute torture, of the Devil’s most intricate design.

You do not dare to move because if you do, he will surely stop. But you very much _want_ to move, because every inch of you is positively aching. Stiff nipples, trembling thighs slick with your arousal. You’ve been playing with yourself while he’s been kissing and exploring you in an attempt to quell some of your impatience, and if you have to keep waiting for something more than butterfly-soft touches, you might just go mad.

“Muriel.”

You call his name, soft and barely there, but he keeps kissing you.

You say it again, a little more impatiently; he has your ankle, and kisses the bone there as his thumb traces the arch of your foot.

Watching this movement you think you can see a flash of amusement in his eyes, which causes you to sit up and say his name again for a third time, and this time he definitely is smiling—the sight is always so beautiful to you that you almost forget how to breathe—and there is even a laugh, deep and throaty, a little husky.

“Stop _teasing_ me,” you huff, barely holding back an eye roll. “I can’t take it anymore. _I won’t_.”

His teeth graze your skin, eyes glinting with amusement. “Not very patient, are you?" 

“Not when I’ve been playing with myself for thirty minutes.”

“Well whose fault is that?”

“Mine,” you grumble.

He kisses your ankle one last time before moving up your body, the expanse of his shoulders shadowing you from the flickering light of the fireplace. His palm smooths over your thigh, knocking away the hand you’ve already taken back there in your impatience. Two fingers gently move through your folds and probe your hole, testing you before they slip in to replace your own. They crook carefully inside of you, the movement slow enough to draw a whimper from the depths of your throat as they beckon you forward while his thumb drags itself almost lazily over your clit.

“Is that good?” He asks. You nod, thighs shaking as his fingers—so much longer than yours, so much thicker—twist and hit your g-spot, stars exploding in your vision as you babble your approval and appreciation. 

He kisses you, tongue sweeping into your mouth, before you reach down and push his hand away. You feel a little too dazed to be refusing his advances, a little too heady and close to the edge, and it must show on every flushed part of your skin and each uneven rise and fall of your chest.

And he must see all of that too, confusion shadowing his features even as he lets you push him back and off you to sit back on his feet. Your gaze drags down his body, slow and with purpose, until it finds the taut stretch of his trousers, where his cock is straining to be given attention. All this time he has been kissing your skin, murmuring your praises, listening to you sigh impatiently as you touched yourself, and no attention has been paid to what might be—at least in this moment—your favourite part of him.

You lick your lips as you eye his cock over, and you have to catch your lip between your teeth to hold back a groan as it twitches under your gaze, nearly delirious with hunger. You barely manage to pull yourself far enough out of your haze to speak.

“You know how the other day…” You start. You place a hand on each of his knees and begin to smooth them up his thighs, leaning in closer as you go higher. “You said that you wanted to try more dirty talk? Use all of those delicious words I’ve been teaching you?”

He nods, only the slightest tinge of pink coming to the tops of his ears. Your hands are at the tops of his thighs now, fingertips brushing against the bulge of his cock; you feel him twitch beneath your hand, the warmth of him radiating through the material. He groans, hand shooting out to grab your wrist, keeping your hand exactly where it is as he gently grinds his hips up into it.

“I want to suck your cock,” you tell him, slow and with deliberate care with the final word. He nods his consent to your request, but it’s clear by the jerking movements of it that he’s barely even listening to you, too caught up in the feel of your hand as he grinds up into it like a horny adolescent.

Your other hand, while you’ve been speaking and while he’s been grinding, has popped open each of his buttons one by one. You pause to pull him free, the length of him sitting hard, heavy, and a little too thick in your palm.

“Can I suck your cock? Please?” You ask him. He nods again, groaning as your thumb grazes over the tip of him.

“Suck it,” he gasps out, trying out some of the words and ways you had been teaching him. “I want you to—” He swallows his words, groans as your other hand moves to cup his balls, rolling them gently in your palm. “Choke on it. I want you to suck it, swallow it…take it down so far you can’t breathe.”

Well.

You move forward eagerly, settling your hips a little further back to let you lean forward and take the tip of him in your mouth. You moan softly around it, tongue swirling and tasting the salty pre-cum waiting for you there. You suck gently, lips following the curve of it like a lollipop as you pop it out of your mouth and then turn your head, dragging your tongue along the underside of his cock from base to tip. His entire body shudders above you at this, his hands delving into your hair but taking care not to grip too tight or take your control off you.

“Suck it,” he tells you through gritted teeth. “Take it all, I want to feel the back of your throat.”

Well _fuck. _

You take the head into your mouth once more, hollowing out your cheeks as you bob on his cock, wetting him, savouring the taste of him, trying to take as much of him as you can. You feel a little pressure on the back of your head from his hand, the tremble of his thigh beneath your palm that tells you he is holding back. He loves the feel of being entirely inside of you, in any part of your body that you’ll let him be, but most of all he loves the warm heat of your mouth, the feel of your throat tightening and constricting around him—you even suspect that he loves the sight of your eyes watering as you look up at him, in the few moments before you run out of breath and have to pull back off him with a gasp.

Your eyes dart up as that moment approaches, the head of him knocking the back of your throat, causing you to gag a little. He pulls his hips back, apologising with his gaze, but you shake your head and start your actions again, eyes watering, hand following the planes of your stomach downward in search of your needy, aching clit. You moan around him as you find it, tracing small circles as you slip two fingers inside of yourself once more, crooking them and stroking your inner walls.

“Are you touching yourself?” You nod, and he groans in appreciation, his hips making small thrusts into your mouth, his cock twitching when your teeth accidentally scrape him.

“I’m gonna come—” He growls, and before he can, you pull your mouth off him, gasping as you speak.

“I want you to come all over me,” you tell him, beg him. “Come on my face, come on my chest, come on my greedy little cunt. Come on every part of me to make me your dirty little whore, so everyone can see—”

He takes himself in his hand and begins to stroke, the movements uneven, jerking as he holds back his release even now. He nods, moans your name softly under his breath as you shift back, still touching yourself, and tilt your face up toward him with your tongue out and waiting.

His tell is always the same—his hand latches onto something nearby, his jaw ticks then goes slack, his left leg shakes. He comes with a growl, his seed spurting all over your waiting tongue, your face, your chest as you gasp. He continues to stroke his cock, aiming it down to where your fingers are still furiously pumping inside of your cunt, your thumb flicking over your clit, thighs shaking. His come covers you there, too, long white trails and spurts that mark every inch of skin you asked to be marked. You cry out as your own release crashes over you, your cunt pulsing and clenching around your fingers, his name on your lips as you babble and groan and thank him.

Your thighs are aching as you come down, but the rest of you is aching in such a delicious way that it hardly seems relevant. His come is streaked all over you—over your thighs, your cunt, your nipples, your chin—and you’ve never felt more beautiful, more wonderful, more _his._

Your eyes move to find his gaze, which has already travelled the same path yours has, eyeing every part of you without an inch of bashfulness. His eyes were a few shades darker, his muscles rolling beneath his shoulders. You part your lips to speak, but before you can, he snatches you up, pulling your body against the hard length of his.

One hand cups the back of your head, the other wipes his seed off your chin with his thumb before claiming your lips in a furious kiss. You are greedy for more, allow every moan and growl and touch that comes with the kiss, and only pull away when your head is swimming and you need to breathe.

Muriel pushes your hair off your face, kisses your forehead, and you see some of the bashfulness return to his gaze as the haze of his orgasm—the sight if you covered in his seed—begins to fade.

“We should get you cleaned up,” he tells you.

“I don’t mind,” you tell him. You aren’t surprised to feel his cock twitch between you at your response. He sighs, scoops you up in his arms, walks you toward the bathroom.

“We’re cleaning you up,” he tells you as he walks you over the threshold. “And then maybe we can go again.”

Well, you think, as he sets you down on the edge of the tub and begins to run you both a bath—that doesn’t sound like a half bad compromise.


End file.
